


a light on the road

by mortalitasi



Series: a crown of poppies [4]
Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Adventure, Friendship, Gen, General, Hurt/Comfort
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-25
Updated: 2015-10-25
Packaged: 2018-04-28 01:07:43
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,678
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5072101
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mortalitasi/pseuds/mortalitasi
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dorian expected to find many things with the Inquisition - a friend was among none of them.</p>
            </blockquote>





	a light on the road

**Author's Note:**

> maybe these two matter to me so much because they remind me of myself and my own best friend, and how meeting her made me a better and stronger person; Nehn and Dorian both came from particularly friendless upbringings, with few exceptions, people they both lost, and the similarities between them despite coming from polar opposite worlds surprised me greatly the first time i played. they still do.
> 
> at the end of the day we can still find things to relate on no matter where we're from, i think.

He's leaving.

In exactly a fortnight, actually, in case you were wondering. This fact comes to him as he reads the middle part of the third paragraph in _Mortis Arboralis_ , and when he gives it greater thought, the words on the pages before him seem to melt away. Dorian Pavus detests goodbyes—as well as confessions of heartfelt sentiment, lukewarm bathwater, and early mornings—and so he endeavors to keep the presence of them in his life to a minimum. The 'have no one to say goodbye to' strategy _had_ been holding out so dreadfully well, too, but like many other things, the Inquisitor saw fit to ruin it.  
  
She doesn't seem to care about his plight much, lounged there in the canapé opposite him (the Orlesians truly do offer wonderful accommodations, if not people), her legs stretched out before her, bare toes curling into the meticulously-embroidered fabric of the furniture she's currently chosen to destroy with her terrible weight-distribution. He'll never understand how she's comfortable sitting like that, honestly. The clean, combed-back braid she's sporting today means the face he's come to know so well is in plain view, from the light hook of her nose to the high, imperious arch of her cheekbones.  
  
Lavellan's got the concentration factor of a fixated bull—with her nose buried in _Hard in Hightown_ 's latest chapter, it'd be genuinely shocking to him if she noticed an explosion, let alone something as quiet and intangible as his worry. She's propped the book up on one knee, balancing it with the only hand she's got left (ha, _left_ ), back turned to the sun, the better she can see with.  
  
He can make out the glint of the chain around her neck from here, winking proudly in the morning light. The first charm hanging from it is a Dalish promise ring—sweet, he supposes, that even Nehn has her sensitivities—the second, a plain Andrastian wedding band. Surprising? Yes. Unexpected? No, not really. If the esteemed Ser Rutherford had been making eyes at her any harder his actual eye _balls_ would have popped right out of their sockets. Messy. The rings rest on the shining face of the locket he'd given her, message crystal inside and all.  
  
Being at ease, he realizes, suits her. Though the exhaustion is still clear in her face, and the shadows of the encounter she had beyond the last eluvian still linger behind her eyes, there is no tight anxiety to her expression. No tension. What he sees is an exceedingly lovely (and exceedingly short) woman, the fire of Marcher autumn in her hair, with a deplorable taste in fiction. He finds he prefers this alternative to the towering, steel-clad herald of divine will, the unapproachable title. She's more than Inquisitor, just like he's more than Pavus. She likes her mead cold and has a rather ridiculous soft spot for white chocolate eclairs—Inquisitors don't eat or drink, but the people behind the name do—and they need to live.  
  
Perhaps he can make that easier for her, after all she's done. Perhaps her disbanding of the Inquisition was a good thing. Perhaps everything, somehow, will turn out alright.  
  
“I lied.”  
  
It takes her a minute or two to realize he addressed her. “Sorry?”  
  
“I said I'd gotten you a going-away gift,” he clarifies. “'A.' Singular. There may be... something else.”  
  
She blinks at him in confusion, and turns the full attention of her sharp-eyed gaze to him. “Should I be worried?”  
  
He laughs. “Always. It may take me some time to get what I need, however.”  
  
“...And now I'm excited.”  
  
“Of course you are! I give the best gifts.”  
  
“Dare I ask what brought this about?”  
  
Dorian shrugs. “These are our last few days here. May as well give them a good parting rumor. Or two.”  
  
“This is Orlais, Dorian,” Nehn says, shutting her book. “Anything less than five rumors and one urban legend is a _scandal_ .”  
  
“I'm sure we'll manage,” he assures her.  
  
She smiles at him, but it doesn't look as happy as it should. “Don't we always?”

 

 

…

 

 

“Does this procedure of yours require a virginal sacrifice? Because I'm sure neither of us qualify.”  
  
“You are the very soul of comedy, Lavellan,” Dorian says to her as he opens the door.  
  
“I do try my best,” she remarks, and squints in the sunlight.  
  
The room Dorian's led her into is open, airy, with a high ceiling and tall windows with gilded sills. Each wall is a library of its own, the shelves stuffed full-to-bursting with books, some old, some so new she can smell the difference in the leather bindings almost an entire ten feet away. This must have been a study, of a kind, because though the place lacks the type of chaos that tells you a room's been lived in, the paraphernalia on the long table—alembics, beakers, another strange glass contraption she cannot name—all point to her guess being right. She sniffs lightly. The faded scent lingering in the air under the notes of the cedar in the rafters is dark, sharp, herbal, peppery. Aconite. And elfroot. Some ragwort.  
  
“This must have been our esteemed Lady Morrigan's favorite haunt,” Nehn says, running her hand along the edge of the table.  
  
Dorian shakes his head, and lets the door swing shut behind him. “How do you even _do_ that? It's been two years,” he says with no small amount of incredulity, and gives a disbelieving huff when she simply pats the side of her nose with a finger. “Well, that's rather frightening. Are we sure you aren't part mabari?”  
  
“I take that to mean I was right, then?”  
  
He wrinkles his nose. “As usual.” He sighs. “I suppose the empress is still rather grateful for that rescue-from-imminent-assassination business—it wasn't too difficult to obtain permission to hole up here.”  
  
“That's probably because you didn't admit to what you actually wanted to do,” Nehn says, and he flashes her a grin. “Right again? I should be getting paid for this.”  
  
“It's secluded,” he observes, and turns his gaze to the window to look out over the courtyard, and at the sight of the Winter Palace resplendent in the sun. It almost reminds Dorian of home. “Or as secluded as one can be at Halamshiral.”  
  
“Did you bring me here to gossip?” Nehn asks, coming to stand beside him. In her flat shoes she barely comes up to his shoulder—a bit endearing, really. “Because if you did, I can't tell where you've hidden the cream-puffs and the plum wine. Appalling.”  
  
“Unfortunately,” he starts, “today's subject is a good deal less pleasant.” He walks over to one of the shelves and reaches out with confidence, pulling on the spine of a gargantuan tome bound in what looks like purple velvet. Dorian sets it on the table with as much care as he can muster, though the sheer weight of it means it's more of a _slam_ than a _set_ . “Not quite as delicate a landing as I'd hoped for, but no matter.”  
  
Nehn's brows quirk upward in confusion, but the curiosity in her gaze can't be mistaken for anything else. She purses her lips, thoughtful. “That looks... almost stereotypically sinister.”  
  
“I had it delivered here posthaste,” Dorian says, patting the front of the book fondly. “I was owed a favor. Leliana _may_ have helped.”  
  
“That's Tevene,” she observes, poking a finger at the silver script running across the cover. “I've stared at enough Venatori loot to know it when I see it. So... what's it say?”  
  
He coughs and puts on his best officious professor voice. “' _Tempora Anima, Tome Ten: The Theory and Practice of Manifestative Magic.'_ By the one and only Verulus Pax. Rather dry reading, but he has some splendid ideas.”  
  
She nods slowly. “Impressive. We may be waiting a while if you're expecting me to have an epiphany.”  
  
“For that arm of yours, you lout,” Dorian says, though the playful words do not reflect his serious expression well enough. “There may be a way to—create you a substitute. Not a perfect facsimile, but good enough.”  
  
Several emotions flit across her face in quick succession: surprise, wonder, some trepidation, uncertainty, and finally, careful curiosity. “Please don't make Cassandra arrest you.”  
  
“No blood magic involved. Not technically, at least,” he tells her. “I swear on the last bottle of that exquisite Rivaini vintage they served me last night.”  
  
She rolls her eyes. “With that said, how could I ever doubt you?”  
  
“That would be implying you _could_ doubt my veracity on the matter, which is, as we know, impossible. That said—it's... alright, then? For me to try?”  
  
She smiles at him, and it's less the grin she gives everyone and more the soft expression she wears around the people she trusts. He's still surprised she counts him among their number. Maybe it's why he feels like he's obligated to take this on, like it's his turn to give something to her in return, after everything she's done, not just for him, but for everyone. It's taken a lot out of her, he knows, she can't fool him—the laughing and lying may work on those less familiar with her insatiable and inexplicable need to have no one worry about her, but Dorian has watched her for too long and recognized too much of himself in her for that to have a chance with him.  
  
“Don't look so dejected, your mustache may start to droop,” she says. “You're at least smart enough to get me a single finger, right?” That pulls a chuckle out of him. “Listen, Dorian, I... it's not easy. But I won't be angry if nothing comes of it. It matters that you thought to try.”  
  
The quiet tone of her voice makes heat gather in his throat, so he clears it. “Keep talking that way and someone may get the idea that you're a decent person.”  
  
She gasps, not missing a beat. “Me, _decent_ ? Perish the thought.”  
  
He reaches for the book. “I know. Frightening, isn't it?”  
  
Nehn laughs a bit. “Absolutely terrifying.”

 

 

…

 

 

 _She nearly cleaves the first of the aggressors in two with a single motion._  
  
_The greatsword takes him through the head, slices through his helm as though it were made of butter, and he only has time for a choked gurgle before Lavellan has wrested her blade free and turned to face the second man, her armor glistening. The corpse falls to its knees, goes under with a splash, and the water around them swirls scarlet. In the dim light of the dungeon, she seems more like vengeful spirit than anything else; Dorian watches that realization play across the remaining man's face when Lavellan backs him up into the iron-bar door. There is terror gleaming in his dark eyes._  
  
“ _Please—”_  
  
_Lavellan snaps his neck out of place with an effortless thrust of her weighty sword. The guard crumples at her feet, making a small wave, sloshing over her boots, and she sniffs. “Fucking Vints. No offense.”_  
  
_Dorian smiles wanly. “None taken.” Not that he'd mention it if there had been any. He likes his face as it is._  
  
_The elf standing across him casts a glance around the dingy, damp holding area, and lowers her weapon. It must be the first time since they met that Dorian cannot find a trace of humor in her expression. It's rather disturbing._  
  
“ _It looks like we're still in the castle,” she says, pursing her lips. “Last I remember, we were... in the throne room. Why are we here?”_  
  
_That, he can answer. “Let's see... if we're still in the castle, it isn't...” He pauses, and then it is suddenly very clear. “Oh! Of course—it's not simply_ where _, it's_ when _!”_  
  
_The dark scowl Lavellan flashes tells him that was_ not _the response she'd been looking for. He forges on ahead anyway._  
  
“ _Alexius used the amulet as a focus,” he explains, but that little divot between her magnificent brows just keeps getting deeper. “It moved us through time!”_  
  
_One corner of her mouth pulls down, revealing a pointed canine. “He... what? Is that even possible?”_  
  
“ _Theoretically, yes,” Dorian says, and then laughs, if somewhat nervously. “Though I suppose_ theoretically _isn't the right word any longer.”_  
  
“ _Right,” Lavellan grunts, swiping at her face with one hand. “So—did we go forward, or back? And how far?”_  
  
_For a moment he feels like a proud teacher. “Those are excellent questions. We''ll have to find out, won't we? Let's look around... see where the rift took us. Then we can figure out how to get back. If we can.”_  
  
“ _Brilliant,” she says. “Very encouraging.”_  
  
“ _I live to deliver good news,” he tells her. He can feel the water soaking through his wonderful boots. He'll have to get another pair, when this is over with. “He must have panicked—the amulet's enchantment couldn't have been in its final stages of development. The rift's formation was premature. The magic went wild when I countered it, and... well. Here we are.”_  
  
_Lavellan blinks, taking the information in. He never really had the time to look at her before, most of their conversations were quick and succinct, and he was too preoccupied with the idea of facing Alexius to focus on the fact that she is, in actuality, a person as well. Her good cheer in the Redcliffe chantry surprised him. She's also fairly proficient at killing anything that gets in her way. He supposes there could be worse people to be stuck in a time-warp with._  
  
“ _Back in the hall,” she says, breaking him out of his thoughts, “Alexius said I was a mistake. That I should never have existed. He must have intended to change—everything. If I hadn't been at the Temple, this entire mess would never had happened, and his precious Elder One would have succeeded in... whatever it is Elder Ones succeed at. Erasing me from time, I suspect. Isn't that a bit ambitious, even for an unhinged magister?”_  
  
_Dorian doesn't know whether to laugh or weep. “He was always a bit of an overachiever.”_  
  
_She scoffs. “Must have been a perfect pupil,” she grumbles as she hefts the greatsword onto the sling across her back, and then bends to pull one of the mangled bodies toward her. She searches through the dead man's pockets with the easy competency of someone who's done this a thousand times before. A key glints between her fingers when she raises her arm next. “Won't be needing this any longer... don't mind if I do, do you?”_  
  
“ _Expecting him to answer?” Dorian asks. She sloshes on ahead toward the gate, key clenched possessively in her hand._  
  
“ _No,” she says, “but imagining it is fun. Haven't had one talk back yet.”_  
  
_He glances at the bloody mess that once used to be a human head, floating there in the water like some garish bath toy, still trailing streams of diluted scarlet. “I should hope not.”_  
  
_Lavellan makes an unhappy sound when she tries to unlock the rusted gate. “Sod you and your mother.”_  
  
“ _You know,” he starts, though it doesn't distract her from her preoccupation, “I don't even want to_ think _about what this will do to the fabric of the world. We didn't travel through time so much as punch a hole through it and toss it into the privy.”_  
  
_Something snaps, sharply, and Lavellan growls. “Fenhedis!”_  
  
“ _But don't worry, I'm here,” Dorian continues, just as she latches both hands onto the side of the offending structure. “I'll protect you.”_  
  
_Lavellan's arms strain, muscles bulging under her surcoat, and the gate tears from its hinges with a shriek of protesting metal. Dorian feels the cobbles under his feet shake when she hurls it to the side dismissively. He hears several things pop back into place when Lavellan stretches her neck, and she makes an apologetic face at him._  
  
“ _Sorry, I wasn't listening,” she says, looking truly regretful. “What were you saying?”_  
  
_Dorian stares at the gate—or, more accurately, its warped remains—and shakes his head. “Never mind.”_

 

 

…

 

 

 _Dust from the wastes of the Approach is still clinging to him and his clothes the evening they return to Skyhold._  
  
_He never thought he'd be happy to breathe in the crisp mountain air, but here they are, and here he is, breathing very deeply, so happy he cannot smell sand and baked dirt. He moves through his nightly routine with ease, and exiles all his crusty robes to the “be washed, perhaps burned” pile in the corner of his room, and emerges later to wander the courtyard. It's such a lovely night, cool and quiet, and gazing at the pines towering around the keep helps him forget the horror of Adamant. He was so sure for a moment, toward the end, that they wouldn't make it._  
  
_Dorian finds the Inquisitor sitting under one of the trees, her back to the bark, face in her hands, and at once he knows that she hadn't meant to be seen. This clearing is secluded, after all, and it's only because of his curious roaming that he ever discovered it in the first place. He turns to leave—and stumbles over a rock. Truly graceful._  
  
“ _Who's there?” the Inquisitor demands, but then her voice softens. “Oh. Dorian...”_  
  
“ _I can go,” he says. Even in the encroaching gloom of dusk, he can see her eyes are rimmed with red, though her cheeks are dry. The idea that she can weep makes him distinctly uncomfortable._  
  
“ _May as well stay since you're already here,” she murmurs, pressing the heel of one palm to her forehead. “Did you need something?”_  
  
“ _No,” he answers. “Nothing in particular. We've... had a long week.”_  
  
_She chuckles. “Longer than I'd like.”_  
  
_He looks down at her, seated there among the tall swaying stalks of grass, and the question slips out of him before he can catch it and contain it. “Are you—alright?”_  
  
_Her shoulders tense for an instant, fingers tightening in her hair. “I'm fine.”_  
  
_That response irritates him more than he expected it would. “I was there, I_ saw _it. We fell into the Fade._ Physically _fell in. And you're just... fine?”_  
  
“ _Yes.”_  
  
“ _Well,” he says, and it's almost a sneer. “Bravo.”_  
  
_Now she falls silent, eyes fixed to the ground, and he regrets his words and tone. Greatly. As he does a good many other things. The awkwardness stretches on unbearably until he sighs, rubbing at the back of his neck, mussing the hair there compulsively. He kicks aside a few rocks near her and then, after taking a deep preparatory breath, simply lowers himself to the ground next to her. She startles when their shoulders brush, head jerking up. She's surprised—so is he, honestly—and the distant light of the lanterns hanging high above them turns the brown in her eyes to gold._  
  
“ _...You'll get dirty,” she whispers, like she's imparting some ancient secret._  
  
_He sighs again. “Yes. I will. But I wouldn't be a very good friend if I left without apologizing, would I?”_  
  
_Nehn frowns. “You don't need to.”_  
  
“ _I do. I shouldn't have snapped. You've done more in a few months than some world leaders have in years,” Dorian says, watching as she drops her attention to the ground in what could be shame. “And Adamant was a waking nightmare. It's a miracle any of us returned alive at all.”_  
  
“ _Loghain didn't,” she reminds him, and her voice thickens with emotion._  
  
“ _I believe he made peace with his choices.” Dorian props an arm on his knee, lets himself take in the calm of the clearing. “For what it's worth, I think you did the right thing.”_  
  
_She nods, and he doesn't blame her for foregoing a verbal agreement. Expressing vulnerable sensibilities is not a strength they share._  
  
_Felix used to force him out of his comfort zone often, as well, he thinks, wondering if he's ever indirectly apologized to anyone else in his life—no one comes to mind, and now Felix is gone, like Loghain, like the soldiers at Adamant, like every person who died in the destruction of the Temple, like all the people who will die in the attempt to stop Corypheus' plans from bearing fruit. The Fade could have easily turned them into a story as well, him, and the Inquisitor, and everyone else who had accompanied them that day, but by some stroke of luck or divine will, it hadn't. That has to count for something, doesn't it? If believing makes him a fool, then a fool he is._  
  
_He jumps a little when a weight settles against his left shoulder, warm and solid, and he looks down only to see the crown of Nehn's head. Wisps of her red hair are clinging to the fabric of his tunic, catching in the embroidery on his armpiece._  
  
“ _Thanks,” she says softly. She doesn't see him smile._  
  
“ _Anytime.”_

 

 

…

 

 

 _The crossroads are beauty beyond imagining—the forgotten past is here, flowering, slowly, decaying as much as it is growing, floating and disconnected, waiting for someone to make it real. She knows Solas thinks he has to be that person. Nehn has never had enough time: her realizations come too late, her resolutions too weak, her reactions too delayed, and it's been others who've paid for it, always others—Frida, the villagers, the people at the Temple, now... everything she's known. It won't happen again._  
  
_She steps into the cool water, letting it lap around her legs; the air smells of apple blossoms and grass, spring, life, and she is dying. There is no sensation in her hand but suffering; neither warmth nor cold moves the agony there, though she can still grip her sword, fight, and walk—until now._  
  
_The Mark hisses, tearing through her gauntlet, and panic sears her heart. She staggers, grinding to a halt, and she hears Bull stop behind her._  
  
“ _Boss?”_  
  
_She turns on him, wild-eyed. “It's going to—everyone, get back!”_  
  
_The burning overwhelms her, and she falls to her knees, barely feeling the impact. A sun is bursting from her hand, sweeping awareness away in a wave of blistering heat that tears a scream from her. She did not shriek when the Keeper put the needle to her flesh, piercing at the sensitive skin on her face and hands; she did not weep when Corypheus pulled her arm from its socket and broke her ribs, or when the mountain fell and her spirit broke; she did not make a sound when the Tevinter assassin drove a blade into her side and choked her; but this... it makes every hurt in the world seem a trifle._  
  
_The world around her is blurred, green with Fade magic, hot as fire, and she is caught in the middle of the storm, howling like a wounded animal._  
  
_She only realizes it is over when hands pull at her shoulder, lifting her from the water. Her vision focuses. It's Dorian—he's cast aside his staff, and Bull is on the other side, one gigantic palm dwarfing her arm at the elbow, keeping her steady. Cole stands behind them, blue eyes wide and frightened, not with fear of her, but for her._  
  
“ _Is...” she starts, sounding drunk. “Did I...”_  
  
“ _I cast a barrier in time,” Dorian says, fingers digging into her sleeve. “No one was hurt.”_  
  
_The relief leaves her feeling boneless. “Good.” She tries to smile. “Don't make that face.”_  
  
_That only serves to aggravate Dorian's pained expression. “Your hand,” he snaps, as though he's angry at it. “It's getting worse.”_  
  
_She glances at the offending limb. Black smoke is rising from the chinks between the joints of her gauntlet, and there is nothing natural about it. The smell of charred tissue lingers around them. She wills it to move, and watches with detached approval as her wrist twitches._  
  
_Bull is the one to haul her to her feet—she thanks him, and tries to forget what just happened. Dorian is still clinging to her arm when she places a hand gently over his to remind him to let go. “Keep your distance,” she tells them. “It may happen again.”_  
  
_Cole approaches her anyhow. “I'm sorry,” he says, so remorseful, as if this is all his fault. “You're hurting, and I can't help.”_  
  
_She laughs, though it cracks in her dried throat, dishonest. “Don't be. Let's finish this.”_  
  
_No matter what it takes._

 

 

…

 

 

She's come to see him off, radiant in her armor, colored copper and velveteen red, glittering like a jewel in the morning sun shining down upon the Val Royeaux docks.  
  
The ship that is bound to carry him hence to Cumberland is a stone's throw away, and the sound of her timbers creaking is strong enough to set Dorian's teeth on edge. He does hate travel by sea—the only comfort in this situation is knowing that, after Cumberland, there will be no sailing involved whatsoever. Horses and travel by land suits him perfectly fine. He remembers crossing the Waking Sea the first time, what seems so long ago, miserable and harried. He could not have imagined standing here, having spent his time surrounded by southerners more dear to his heart that he can freely admit.  
  
Nehn is no longer Inquisitor, but the title will never truly leave her. She is watching him, alert, her countenance carefully blank, and it crosses his mind that this may be the last time he sees her for—for a long while. She is healthier than she was on that terrible day when she lurched back through the final eluvian, and the wonderful sheen of the magical energy bound to the shape of her left hand is something that causes pride to buzz in his chest whenever he looks at it. Its creation had been a twisting path of trial and error. Dagna had been happy to help. He's sure Nehn will have more alternative replacements than she ever wanted by the end of the week.  
  
A gust of wind rushes over them, stirring the high collar of his robe, twisting the long tail of Nehn's hair behind her. The rigging of the ship groans, clear above the bustle.  
  
“So,” she says. “This is it, then.”  
  
“You make it sound so final,” he admonishes, and she grins.  
  
“Set aside some time for me when you're not busy ruling Tevinter.”  
  
He laughs, loud and clear, probably the most earnestly he has all week. “I have to _get there_ first. But yes. I promise.”  
  
“And don't go drinking alone. Make sure to stay safe.”  
  
Dorian rolls his eyes. “ _Yes_ , mother mine,” he says.  
  
“I'll be checking in regularly.”  
  
“I'm starting to think giving you that crystal was a bad idea,” he says, pointedly looking at the locket hanging from the chain around her neck.  
  
She sticks her tongue out at him, and the action makes her appear years younger. “Can't take it back now. You'll just have to live with my nagging.”  
  
He's about to reply when a shout cuts through the air.  
  
“Monsieur Pavus! It is all ready for you now!”  
  
“I'll be right there,” he says, waving a hand at the attendant on the docking plank before turning back to Nehn. “I...”  
  
“I know,” she replies.  
  
“Then—” The word dies in his mouth. _Goodbye_ is not right.  
  
She stands before him for just a moment longer, and then she's closed the distance between them, reached up on her tiptoes, and drawn him into an embrace so strong it squeezes the air from his lungs. Years ago, he would have floundered at the contact, unsure, but the Dorian he is today circles his arms around her and returns the gesture, pressing his cheek to the top of her head. She smells of leather and soap and cloves, and her hair is soft against his skin.  
  
“Dareth shiral, lethallin,” she says, and his eyes begin to sting. “You will always have a home here, should you wish it.”  
  
He has found something better than goodbye to say.  
  
“Thank you.”


End file.
